


Daydreams

by GiGiS89



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Parent Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 19:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13665654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiGiS89/pseuds/GiGiS89
Summary: It's been six years since Dean's brother abandoned him and their father to pursue a hunting-free life. In that time Dean's life has changed in ways he could have never imagined. It's a good life, even if it's a life without his brother. Now Sam is back and with him the memories Dean hoped he'd locked away for good.





	Daydreams

Author's note: This is my submission for the [Dean Winchester Big Bang](http://deanwbigbang.livejournal.com/) on LJ. (I highly encourage you to check out the fantastic stories posted there.) I was fortunate to have [emmatheslayer](https://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/495936.html) as my artist. Please stop by her journal and give her some love. I'd also like to thank jdl71 for her beta. Whatever mistakes remain are my own. Title from Empty Houses.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural (sad) or make any money from these stories. I just like to play in their sandbox.

 

 

It’s nearly dawn by the time Dean rounds the corner onto his street. He takes a deep breath, grateful to be home. He’s exhausted and sore and questioning why he’s still hunting, when he catches sight of his father sitting on the porch step, waiting for him. For a moment, Dean panics, wondering if something has happened to the kids. The panic fades quickly though, as Dean gets a better look at him. John is barefoot, wearing a white undershirt and sleep pants. He’s cradling a large mug of what Dean guesses is probably John’s industrial strength coffee. Dean can’t make out John’s expression but the body language is relaxed enough that it’s likely no one is in immediate danger.

John stands as Dean pulls into the driveway. He waits patiently for the old garage door to open and then follows Dean in as he pulls the Impala into the garage. Dean glances in the rear-view mirror as he shuts the car off, wondering what the hell is going on.

“You okay?” John sounds as exhausted as he looks. Dean wonders if he’s still fighting insomnia.

“I’m not hurt.” It’s his standard response. Dean hasn’t been okay in years.

John looks him over. Dean knows it’s only John’s incredible discipline and fear of how Dean would react that keeps him from confirming Dean’s assessment for himself. How Dean wishes they could go back to the days of the post-hunt pat down, though he knows full well those days are history.

It’s been just over four years since they finally killed the demon that killed his mother, two since John worked his way back into Dean’s life. While on the surface things seem okay, the truth is his relationship with John is complicated. There are too many things unacknowledged and unsaid between them. Maybe if they’d ever actually talked about it, talked about the demon, about why John left him, about Sam, they’d be able to bridge the distance between them. As it is, it’s nearly impossible when John still pretends everything is exactly as it was between them, before Sam left, before the demon revealed everything Dean and Sam had become to each other. A pulse of shame burns through him.

Dean shakes his head. He can’t afford to dredge all that back up. It’s been difficult enough having John back in his life, living just two blocks away from him, spending nearly every day together at the shop, watching John be a better grandfather than he ever was a father. Dean never realized how much he resented his father until he was suddenly a father himself. He sighs, shoving the old hurts momentarily aside. Dean can’t think about any of that right now.

“The kids okay?” Dean asks.

John nods, but doesn’t offer anything else.

Anxiety wells up in Dean. That uncomfortable and all too familiar feeling that usually precedes receiving bad news. John stares at him for a long moment. Dean wants to be patient but can’t. He’s exhausted and despite what he’d told John, is in fact hurt. His knees ache and his lower back has been spasming for the past hour. All he wants to do is check on his kids, shower and go to bed.

“What is it?” Dean asks, more harshly than he intended.

John doesn’t react, simply watches him, seemingly caught in some internal debate. Dean wishes John would just spit it out. He’s too goddamn tired for whatever this is.

John runs his hand through his hair, a gesture Dean knows to be the ultimate forewarning of unpleasant news. His father is flustered and unsure. It’s not a state Dean is used to seeing John in. Even as they’ve navigated the sometimes-treacherous waters of their renewed relationship, Dean has rarely seen his father unnerved.

“Whatever it is, just spit it out.” Dean demands impatiently. His back spasms; Dean grimaces. He’s 28 years old and feels like an old man. He doesn’t know how his father manages.

“Your back hurting?”

Dean grunts an affirmation, leaning against the Impala for support. His knees, especially the left one, feel just about ready to give out.

John sighs.

“Well?”

“Sam’s here. He stopped by the shop yesterday.”

Dean hears the words, knows what they mean, but doesn’t understand. There is only one Sam that matters and Dean knows his father couldn’t be talking about him. Sam, their Sam - _his_ Sam- abandoned him a long time ago. He’s not coming back to them, to Dean. Sam’s six-year long silence has made that crystal clear. Not that Dean blames him for leaving, not most days at least. Hell, Dean can even admit that as much as he misses his brother, in some ways, he is grateful for Sam’s absence. It has allowed him to maintain some semblance of sanity. It allows Dean to ignore all manner of truths.

Dean leans harder against the Impala, using it to support his weight as he shifts onto his better knee. He offers no comment. His father doesn’t offer anything more. John watches and waits.

Dean could make this easier, he supposes. Open his mouth and ask questions (he has many) or offer support (he has none to give). He could do something other than glare at his father in silence. But really, what is there to say?

John soughs. “Dean, I know you and I haven’t ever really talked about what happened…”

“Don’t.” Dean cuts him off, not interested in whatever subject John is trying to broach. Sam. His heart races at the thought. He curses his own stupid self for allowing Sam to continue to have so much power over of him.

“Dean,” John ventures.

Dean shakes his head as if to shake Sam out of his mind. The last thing Dean wants to do now is dig up the past.

“No, Dad. He’s here? Great. You wanna see him? Awesome. But I don’t want anything to do with it.” In his head he’s calm, indifferent even, which is why the sound of his strained, panicked voice surprises him. He’s suddenly overcome with the need to leave. Dean pushes off the car, willing his legs to move and take him away from the conversation.  

The first step sends a jolt of sharp pain up his heel through his leg. He stumbles, shoots a hand out in time to keep himself from falling. His eyes prickle with tears. He can’t do this. Can’t be here. He attempts another step and his knee gives out, sending him toppling forward. He’s spared the indignity of falling on his face by his father’s quick reflexes. Dean pulls back hard, doing his best to break his father’s hold. It would be so much easier Dean thinks, if he could just catch his breath.

“Easy, son.” John eases them both down to the ground. “Breathe.”

“I’m fine.” Dean tries to shove him away. The jerky movement makes his back cramp painfully. It only takes a moment for John to sit him up against the car.

John kneels across him. “How bad is it?”

“Six, seven, if I move wrong.” Dean admits, cursing his body for choosing this moment to betray him.

“Just your back?”

Dean swallows hard, looks away, not wanting to admit to anything. The new position eases the pain slightly, though the muscles of his lower back are still tight, throbbing insistently. He shifts a bit, trying to find the position that will alleviate the pressure on his back. As soon as he feels better supported, Dean straightens his knee and it pops loudly.

John gives him a once over and sighs. “Come on. I’ll help you get cleaned up. I still have some carisoprodol.”

Dean nods, hating himself for needing his father’s help but as much as he doesn’t want it, Dean definitely doesn’t want his kids finding him laid out on the garage floor.

John helps him to the bathroom and sets him down on the closed toilet lid. It’s a sad replay of a hundred other times Dean’s been hurt, except there is no comfort in being cared for by his father. Not anymore. John fills the sink with cool water, grabs a hand towel, dunks it into the water and then squeezes the excess out before handing it to Dean. Dean takes the towel and begins wiping his own face while John finds the pain pills and fills a glass for him.

“You take anything in the past six hours?” He asks as he hands Dean the glass and takes back the towel.

“No.”

John hands him two pills and gestures for him to take them. Dean obeys. He’s tired and too distracted by the morass of emotions the news of Sam’s return has stirred to fight about it.

“So,” John says leaning against the closed bathroom door. “Sam.”

Dean soughs, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t want anything to do with him and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

“Come on, son. You know that’s not true. You boys were always close. What happened...well, that was my fault, not yours.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Dean hisses. “It doesn’t matter anymore; it’s ancient history.”

John closes the space between them, takes Dean chin in his hand and tips his head up. Dean sees the pity and regret in John’s eyes and averts his gaze. “If this is about the demon, you have to know. I never believed a word, Dean. “

Dean grimaces. If his father only knew, every single word the demon had said was true. Dean wonders what John would do then.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean replies, pulling out of his father’s hold, leaning back onto the toilet tank to create some much-needed distance between them. It really doesn't. Dean will never admit to what happened or own up to how he feels about Sam. Not to his father. Not to anyone. He’s barely able to admit it to himself. Dean considers his ability to do so a victory in itself, especially considering Dean had only just begun to come to terms with what they’d become, when Sam decided he wasn’t interested in being his brother, his anything, anymore.

His father regards him silently as if weighing whether this is an argument worth pressing then turns back towards the door.

“I’ll get you some clean clothes. Kids will be up soon.”

Dean watches his father exit then quietly close the door behind him.

Sam. Jesuschrist.  How many years did he wish for, wonder about, his brother? How many nights did he lay awake replaying those weeks before Sam left to live his Dean-free life? How long had he waited, like some lovesick girl, for Sam to come back to him? Long enough for those weeks with Sam to become more memory than reality, for Dean to question whether all the things that happened between them actually occurred.

Dean thinks about Sam then, nearly as tall as Dean, but lithe and wiry in a way Dean never was, and wonders what Sam looks like now. He imagines he’s nothing like the boy in the pictures Dean keeps hidden in his nightstand. Dean certainly isn’t anything like he was then. Dean’s more worn down than he ever thought he would be, more embattled. Dean can, with assuredness and objectivity, say he was exceptionally good looking back then. It didn’t mean much to Dean at the time. It was a tool like any other. One Dean traded on often, wielded with impunity. Dean’s lost the prettiness of his youth. He’s rougher around the edges now, more scarred but still uses his looks to gain favor when he can.

Dean was grown by the time Sam left but Sam, Sam was still growing into the man he would become. Dean wonders if Sam still looks, in some respects at least, the way Dean sometimes allows himself to remember him when he’s alone in the darkness and seclusion of his own bedroom. Wonders if Sam ever thinks of him, chokes out his name, the way Dean does during those furtive, blissful moments of pleasure when he allows himself to dwell on the past.

Dean groans, disgusted with himself and how weak he is, has always been, when it comes to his brother. The thought of all he would do, if Sam allowed him to, makes Dean’s guts churn with guilt. Nausea sweeps over him unexpectedly.

Dean makes it to the sink but just barely. He vomits the meager contents of his stomach and the two mostly undigested pain pills into it. Dry heaving for long minutes after, until he’s completely exhausted. He rinses his mouth, pulls himself up, leaning heavily against the counter. He can’t do this. If Sam is here, then Dean can’t be.

Maybe he can head to Bobby’s or to the Roadhouse. Dean has money saved and Bobby and Ellen, he has no doubt, would put him to work if he showed up at either of their places needing a fresh start. He’ll have to pull the kids out of school but it’s still early in the school year. They’d miss their friends and John but they’re young. They’ll adjust. God knows he and Sam had to.  It occurs to him that he’s being ridiculous, he’s not going to uproot his life. He takes several deep breaths trying to ease himself off the edge. Dean doesn’t have to see Sam. Sam will never have to see him. Dean can continue to ignore what happened and John can continue to live in ignorance.  

Upon hearing John’s soft knock, Dean schools his expression into what he thinks might pass as indifference. He knows he’s failed to make a convincing show of it when he catches sight of John’s alarmed expression. John doesn’t ask any more questions. He helps Dean back onto the toilet seat, retrieves the abandoned washcloth and cleans Dean up. They don’t speak and Dean doesn’t protest as John undresses him, cleans his wounds, wraps an ACE bandage around his knee then helps him into clean clothes. John presses another two pills and a half full glass of water into his hand. He takes them then lets himself be pulled onto his feet. John grunts as he stands, bearing most of Dean’s weight. Dean tries to be helpful but he’s too consumed with thinking of all the ways he wishes he could disappear to be of much help.

By the time John helps him into to bed, Dean is emotionally and physically spent. He’s grateful when the pills kick in, making him feel heavy and numb. John settles him in, propping him up with several pillows, before shoving one beneath his knee and then covering him with the bed sheet.

“Don’t worry about the kids, okay?”

Dean nods. John squeezes his shoulder and turns to go. Dean grabs his wrist.

“I don’t want to see him.” he pleads. It’s taken him so long to be able to come to terms with the Sam-shaped hole in his heart. He won’t survive being left a second time.

John nods, prying Dean’s hand off him then setting Dean’s arm on the bed. He leaves; Dean lets out a long-held breath.

~~~

_“Dean.” Sam’s hand slides across his ribs. “Are you awake?”_

_He is but isn’t. He’s been floating in the veil between consciousness and sleep for a while. “Sammy?”_

_Dean feels the heat radiating off of Sam’s body. Hears his steady, even breathing. Shivers as Sam’s hot breath ghosts across his skin_ _. Sam pulls Dean into his chest; Dean grunts discontentedly. Sam pulls Dean in even closer, until Dean’s back is plastered into Sam’s chest. He splays his hand on Dean’s belly and Dean relaxes against him. They lay still, listening to their father snore in the bed beside them. They’re too old to share a room with their father, let alone a bed but money has been particularly tight the past few months. Sacrifices have been made by all. Not that Dean considers sharing a bed with Sam a sacrifice._

_The motel bed creaks as John turns his back to them. All is silent for a moment but soon John’s soft snoring fills the room again. They lay still until finally, Sam lets his hand wander from Dean’s stomach to his hip. He nudges the waistband of Dean’s boxers, carefully tracing the top of the jagged scar that runs along Dean’s hip bone._

_It’s new and Sam, Dean knows, hates it. As far as Sam is concerned, the scar is more evidence of their father’s neglect, of his unrelenting obsession with getting his revenge. Sam squeezes Dean’s hip and Dean looks back at him, bleary eyed and sleep ruffled. They share a long inscrutable look before Dean finally lays his head back down._

_Sam doesn’t ever ask for permission. He never has, not the first time and not since. In the weeks since this started, they’ve never verbally acknowledged it. Never given the thing between them a name. Though it has one, an ugly, destructive and immoral thing that, as far as Dean in concerned, has nothing to do with what he and Sam share. This thing between them is too good to be called that. It’s too honest, too pure. It’s something just their own. It’s about comfort and security and yes, sometimes even about pleasure._

_Dean doesn’t remember when or how it started. When his need to protect and be responsible for his brother shifted into something inappropriate and possessive. He has no recollection of when he began thinking of his brother as “his,” only that once he did, once he allowed himself to lay claim, it broke something in him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he allowed his thinking to become muddled. He began to see everything through the filter of his twisted feelings. It rendered even the most normal and platonic of actions on his brother’s behalf with new meaning. His perception of all they shared, the teasing, the touching, hugs and other gestures of affection, changed. In each there was a new, underlying current of want and need which he was certain was not his alone. How could it be when all they had to keep one another safe and sane was each other? What would one do without the other to watch their back? Without the other to keep out the darkness?_ _When Sam finally kissed him, too rough and desperately greedy, Dean didn’t hesitate to return Sam’s affections._

_Sometimes, he wonders if this thing between them is his fault. If he tainted his brother, other times, like now, he’s certain that couldn’t possibly be the truth. It was always there, simmering beneath the surface. All Dean did was finally give Sam permission to act._

_Sam lets the rough scar guide him as he slips his hand beneath the well-worn cotton of Dean’s shorts. Dean tenses, electrified by the touch. He feels his chest, neck, cheeks, ears flush with heat. Dean lets out a choked breath then bites his chapped lips to keep quiet, thrilled and mortified to be doing this with John only three feet away._

_Sam shushes him as his fingers trip down Dean’s hardening length then wrap gently around the root, giving him a soft squeeze. Dean tips his head forward but doesn’t make a sound otherwise. Sam kisses the nape of his neck as he strokes up, tightening the ring of his fingers as he moves over the head of Dean’s cock. Dean bucks into his hand in silent encouragement. Sam twists his grip and rubs his palm over the tip. Dean is already so wet. Dean pushes into Sam’s hand with a soft sigh. Dean is tempted to demand a kiss, demand to be claimed (not that Sam hasn’t claimed every bit of him anyway) but the angle is awkward and the challenge of staying quiet already too much. Sam rests his cheek against Dean’s ear, his hot breath ghosting across Dean’s skin. The intimacy of it all makes Dean’s heart ache._

_Sam presses his thumb into Dean’s slit then drags it down the bundle of nerves just beneath the crown. He rubs the sensitive spot there then resumes stroking him, long, even pulls, just how Dean likes it. Dean’s mouth falls open. He’s panting now, struggling to be silent. He’s close. Dean reaches back and slips a hand into Sam’s hair, fingertips scritch-scratching the back of Sam’s skull._ Hurry _._

_Dean rests his full weight against his brother, pressing Sam’s erection against his ass. Dean rocks against him, giving Sam silent permission to seek out whatever friction he can get. Dean’s boxers bunch and pull uncomfortably as Sam drags between Dean’s cheeks. Dean revels in the friction of Sam’s length against him, encouraging Sam to quicken his pace. It’s all too much. Anticipation thrums through every muscle of his body, building like a wave that just won’t crest. He needs more. He shoves back hard, egging Sam on until Sam begins to chase his own orgasm in earnest, stroking Dean faster and harder, paying Dean’s slit extra attention on each stroke until Dean finally spills over Sam’s hand. Dean bites back a grunt and tugs Sam’s hair as his body spasms uncontrollably for several, blissful long seconds. Sam doles out his own final thrusts and quickly follows. Dean tilts his head his stubble rasping against Sam’s own. He slips his hand out of Sam’s hair and rests it on his cheek for a moment, hardly believing he’s allowed to  have this, before letting it fall back to the bed._

_They lay still for a few moments, recovering from their release. Their father snorts loudly then rolls onto his back. Sam’s hand eases off Dean’s cock and back onto his hip. Sam presses his tacky fingers to Dean’s scar, squeezing his hip, letting out a shaky breath that sounds almost like the stifling of tears._

_“Sam? Dean whispers, turning to face his brother._

_Sam looks down at him; his expression unreadable the way it often is these days. Part of Dean wishes Sam were still the same earnest kid he was just a few years ago. He knew everything about Sam then. Understood the meaning of every glance, every sigh. While Dean is sure he’s still the one person who understands Sam best, he’s also sure that doesn’t mean he knows a whole lot. Sam’s eighteen; Dean isn’t the keeper of all of Sam’s hopes and secrets anymore._

_Sam watches him, his face frighteningly blank._

_The weight of Sam’s gaze makes Dean’s guts churn._

_“Sammy?”_

_Sam closes his eyes tightly. He tips his head back and swallows hard, before whispering, ”I’m sorry”._

_There are a million questions on the tip of Dean’s tongue. Why? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did I do something? Do you regret this? Do you want to stop? He chokes them all down, watching his brother silently, until Sam finally looks away._

~~~

Dean startles awake. His heart pounds in his chest; his throat clenches with emotion. He aches with the memory of their last time together and burns with resentment at the memory of Sam announcing the next day he was leaving for Stanford. Dean recalls how he’d stood there, struck numb by the announcement. Feeling too blindsided and overwhelmed to do more than stand stupidly on the sidelines as Sam and John argued. He remembers the screams and recriminations. Remembers begging Sam to stay and Sam adamant insistence that he couldn’t. Dean had laid his heart bare, asked Sam to stay, for him but Sam refused. He pleaded with Dean to understand, even asked Dean to go with him. Dean, still reeling with the realization all Sam had kept from him, had been unable to answer. (Only later would he consider how unfair it had been for Sam to ask him to decide in minutes to do what had Sam months, maybe years, to plan.) Sam left.

Dean growls in frustration, pounding his fist into the bed. He doesn’t want to think about the past. He wants it buried and forgotten where it belongs. He sits up. His head hurts from the pills and lack of sleep.  He curses himself for allowing the old pain to resurface. He yanks the pillows out from beneath him, turns on side then angrily shoves them back in place. He’s fucking tired and he needs to sleep and fuck Sam for thinking he can come back uninvited. He closes his eyes, even though he knows it’s pointless, and lies in bed for another ten minutes, before finally giving up. He sits up, scoots back and props himself against the headboard, as he glances at the clock on his nightstand. It’s only been four hours. He knocks the back of his head softly against the headboard. It’s going to be a long fucking day.

Dean pads down the hallway to kids’ rooms. He can hear the television on low in Ben’s bedroom.  He pops his head in, leaning against the doorway.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Claire says at the exact same time Ben says, “Hey, Dad”.

They each glance back as they greet him but quickly return to watching television.

Dean enters and takes a seat on Ben’s bed.

“Where’s your Granddad?”

“He’s on the phone with Uncle Bobby.” Claire replies as she stands, gives him a hug and then sits down beside him.

Ben clicks the television off and sits down on Dean’s opposite side. “You’re not going out again. Are you,Dad?” He asks hesitantly.

Dean squeezes them both in an awkward side hug and presses a kiss to the top of each of their heads.  Ben scrunches his face up in embarrassment. Claire grins, offers him her cheek and he kisses it dutifully.

“I’m done going on errands for your Uncle Bobby, at least for a while.”

“I’m glad.” Ben whispers and the familiar guilt of having worried him resurfaces. He wonders if maybe it’s time to stop hunting for good, but dismisses the idea. How could he when he knows what’s out there? Knows what could come for them at any time? He can’t pretend he doesn’t know the truth. He sighs remembering Sam’s reaction to learning what their father really did and imagines how he’d react now to Dean still hunting even though he’s a parent. He shrugs off the thought. Ben and Claire’s life is nothing like what Sam and Dean’s was and he’s certainly nothing like his father was then. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing and Dean’s proven that. Who cares what the fuck Sam will think? Sam gets no say in Dean’s life. Not anymore.

“Come on,” Dean says, nudging Ben and taking Claire’s hand. “Let’s go find your Grandad.”

John is off the phone and manning the stove by the time all three make their way into the kitchen.

“What’d Bobby want?” Dean asks before John can get a word out. The kids dash past Dean to John’s side. Claire hugs John’s leg tightly. Ben nabs a piece of bacon from the plate beside him.

“Hey,” John admonishes Ben playfully then hands a piece of bacon to Claire. She grins at her brother and moves to sit down beside Dean at the kitchen table.

“Nothing. Just letting him know we’re off the rotation for a while.”

Dean’s brow quirks. He’s grateful. It is what he was himself planning to tell Bobby but he’s still curious as to why John would decide to make that call. “Why?”

“We have things to deal with here.” John responds without looking at him. He’s singularly focused on stacking pancakes onto a plate.

Dean’s mood immediately sours, remembering their conversation. “I told you. I don’t want anything to do with that.”

“With what?” Ben asks, looking from Dean to John. He’s seven, but considers himself an adult member of their household.

John sets the pancakes on the table then adds the plate of bacon. Dean pours each child a small glass of milk.

“I want OJ.” Claire insists.

“Only after you drink your milk.” Dean tells her.

Ben grunts, displeased at being ignored. Dean smoothes back his hair then takes his seat. They spend a few minutes helping the kids load their plates. John rationing out bacon; Dean regulating the amount of syrup they pour onto their pancakes. John waits until the kids are well into their breakfast before saying anything more on the subject.

“I know you don’t.” John says, as if there had been no pause in their conversation. “I’m not asking you to do anything. But, maybe for the next few days you can be here for the kids.”

Dean looks up, offended that his father would infer he’s not responsible for his own children. As far as Dean is concerned, he’s taken better care of and provided the two children more security, more care than John ever did he and Sam. He can feel his face flush with anger.

John raises his hand. “I just mean that the kids probably shouldn’t hang around the shop until we figure this thing out. I’m meeting with him there later today and depending on how things go, maybe again tomorrow.”

Dean glares at his father. John’s hopeful tone galls Dean. Sam may have lied about Stanford but John was the one who kicked Sam out and told him never to come back.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” This time it’s Claire. A syrup soaked piece of pancake dangles precariously from her fork.

Dean takes a deep breath; the expansion of his ribs sends tendrils of pain shooting down his spine. He forces himself to calm down. Dean hopes he looks calmer than he feels.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” He says as the piece of pancake plops back onto her plate. “That’s fine. I’ll adjust my schedule at the shop.”

John nods in agreement then turns his attention to his food. Dean stabs into his pancakes until they’re a shredded pile of dough.

 

It’s that rare kind of Saturday when the kids don’t have anywhere to be. Typically, there is a practice or play date to attend. If he’s covering the shop, he’ll bring them with him to the shop rather than leave them with a sitter. They’re exceptionally good. It’s not usually difficult to watch them and take care of customers.

Dean is grateful for the day off. The way he’s feeling, he’s not sure he could handle lugging them around town today.

Dean hobbles out onto the back porch and sets them loose in the backyard. He built an elaborate jungle gym/fort (a gift from their Uncle Bobby) for the kids the previous year. It’s Ben and Claire’s second favorite place to play. The Impala, much to Dean’s chagrin, being the first.  

Dean settles himself onto the porch swing, propping his leg up on the kids play table. It’s low to the ground, making it the perfect footstool. He watches the kids play, taking in his well-kept yard. It’s insane, he thinks to himself, this life. His life. Who would have ever thought he’d end up here? He wonders what Sam’s life is like now and marvels at the irony of him ending up with the “normal” life Sam daydreamed and longed for. Not that he had any idea it would end up this way.

Dean had had one incredible weekend with Ben and Claire’s mother, Lisa when Dean was eighteen. They’d spent two amazing days together and as far as Dean was concerned that was the end of it. He never imagined he would run into her again or that when he did, it would be during the worst time of his life.

He ran into her in the same place he’d met her the first time-a bar. At that point, Dean hadn’t been hunting in weeks and as much as he felt he should care about that, he didn’t. He felt it hardly mattered what he did. Sam had abandoned him for California and his father? John had hung around for a little bit longer-long enough for Dean to help him kill the demon that killed their mother anyway. Afterwards, he’d left Dean as surely as Sam had. (Not that Dean blamed him, not after the demon had made sure John knew just how close Sam and Dean become.) In less than two years, Dean had gone from being a brother and a son to being nothing to no one.

Guilt-ridden and without direction, Dean had found himself without much motivation to take care of himself. If he drank too much, took too many risks, what did it matter? He didn’t have anyone to answer to or to be responsible for. He’d been on the road for months, hunting with a fervor and ferocity of which he did not know he was capable. He’d fought and bled and fucked his way through half the country. Slashed and shot more monsters in the four months prior that he had in the previous year hunting with his father.

As far as Dean was concerned, he’d earned a distraction, a break from the relentless cycle of rancor and guilt and self-recrimination. On that night, Dean had been doing his best keep his three-day bender alive. He hadn’t been ready to slip into a state that might even remotely resemble sobriety. Being sober meant facing reality and Dean hadn’t been ready to do that. Looking back now, Dean thinks someone, god, whoever, must have been watching out for him that night. He doesn’t know what would have happened, if she hadn’t happen to be at the same bar. Had chosen to ignore him rather than sit with him as he sobered up enough to stand. She’d taken him home and invited him into her life and in the process irrevocably changed the course of his. They’re life together wasn’t perfect but she’d given him hope and with Ben and Claire a second chance.

And just as Dean never imagined seeing Lisa again, he never guessed John would come back into his life, claiming to be the new owner of a garage and a too big house he’d inherited from the father of one of his Vietnam buddies. It had taken time but eventually John managed to convince Dean to run the shop with him, to try to be a family again. As incentive or a show of good faith, Dean doesn’t know which, maybe both, John had given the house to Dean and rented his own, much smaller place nearby so he could help with the kids.

Claire squeals as Ben pushes her; it’s an uneven shove that sends the swing into a spiral. It twists and then corrects itself.

“Be careful,” he yells. Ben ignores him; Claire’s tells Ben to do it again.

Dean chuckles, amazed at how much he loves them both. Fatherhood wasn’t anything he’d ever given any consideration and yet here is a father of two. He considers his own childhood and the apple pie, Beaver Cleaver existence Sam always envisioned and considers that out of the three of them, this version -the one he’s managed to carve for himself- is probably the best. It’s not perfect but it’s pretty damn good and Dean is good in it. His kids are safe, happy. He wonders what Sam will make of it all, if he’ll be pissed off or glad Dean managed to have all this. He wonders if Sam has a wife and kids of his own and wonders again why Sam is here.

The buzzing of Dean’s cell phone snaps him out of his thoughts. He glances at the caller ID on the screen. It’s Bobby. Dean sighs, knowing his father must have mentioned Sam’s sudden appearance during their earlier conversation. Why would he be calling otherwise? Dean just saw the man two days ago.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dean.”

“Hi, Bobby.  What’s up? I thought Dad talked to you about us taking a break for a bit.”

“Now, you know damn well I ain’t calling about that.” Bobby sighs. “You going to see him? Your Dad, well, you know him. Tight lipped bastard dropped that little Sam bomb on me, like it was no big deal the son he hadn’t seen in six years suddenly showed up at the shop and then wouldn’t say a damn thing more about it.”

Dean chuckles, overcome with affection for the man. What would Dean have done in those days, weeks, months after Lisa’s death without Bobby? It was Bobby who came for him, helped him deal with the courts, gave him and them a place to stay.

Dean shakes his head, “Nah, not much point.”

“Dean,” Bobby warns, “You have a second chance here.”

Dean laughs bitterly. “To what?”

Bobby grunts in frustration, then in a much gentler tone adds, “Isn’t it about time you cleared the air? Forgave yourself?  You weren’t alone in what happened.”

Dean sits up abruptly, the sudden movement sending a bolt of pain down his spine. How Dean wishes Bobby didn’t know him so well. Wishes he could go back in time and tell his younger self to quit drinking so much and learn to shut the fuck up. “Bobby,” he warns. “We’re not talking about that.”

Bobby doesn’t respond. They listen to each other’s silence for a long, uncomfortable minute.

“Well, you should still see him, even if it’s only to tell him off.”

Dean has nothing to say to that and remains silent.

“You’re a good man, Dean. Don’t ever forget that.” Bobby says kindly.

Dean’s throat burns with unwanted emotion. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“You give those two a kiss for me.”

Dean chuckles; Bobby is sucker when it comes to the kids.

“You see about bringing them up here soon. It’s been too long.”

“Course.” Dean nods, looking to his kids, who have abandoned their play and are sitting on the steps of the back porch, watching him.

“All right, then,” Bobby pauses, as if he has something more to say but seems to think better of it. “Talk to you soon,” he says and hangs up before Dean can say goodbye.

By mid-afternoon, the kids are driving him nearly as crazy as the relentless ache in his back is. He’s done his best to keep them and himself occupied, though he’s met with limited success on that front and has been even less successful at keeping Sam off his mind. Sam’s arrival begs all kinds of questions: where has he been? What has been doing? Is he okay? Is he in trouble? Is that why he came? The age old need to protect Sam flares back to life; it’s reemergence irritates and troubles him. He tells himself Sam isn’t his to worry about anymore and almost believes it. He yanks the pantry open and grabs a box of microwavable popcorn, pulls a pack out and pops in it. He listens to the hum of the microwave and does his best to think about anything but his brother.

Dean puts the kids to bed early. They were both worn out and Dean is too, though he’s not quite ready to go to bed. Sam’s meeting with their father has been niggling at him all day, stirring up unwanted thoughts and memories. He needs a distraction and maybe a beer. (Drinking isn’t something he does with regularity anymore. Though, he sometimes indulges in a beer or two.) He’s earned it. He’s dealt with a lot shit in the past twenty-four hours.

Dean limps into the kitchen, pausing to look at the pictures and drawings on his fridge. He touches Claire’s most recent work of art -Ben and her with a yellow dog. Not exactly subtle, he muses and can’t help but think of every time Sam begged their father for a pet, for a home. Can’t help but recall how disappointed Sam was when they finally found him after two terrifying weeks of searching, in Flagstaff with that stupid dog, Bones. Never mind his running away had nearly killed Dean or that Dean had to bear the brunt of John’s anger for letting it happen. Sam got what he wanted and that’s all that ever seemed to really matter. Sam had been so crestfallen when John had made him leave the dog behind. It felt as if Sam was more concerned for the dog than for Dean. Sam didn’t seem to understand or even want to understand, just how much his leaving had hurt Dean. Dean should have known then that Sam would never stop running away from him, from their father, from the life.

Dean hears the front door lock rattle and is instantly on alert. Only two people have keys to the house and one of them is in South Dakota. He reaches for the knife drawer but stops when he hears his father calling him.

“Dean?”  

Dean glances at his watch; it’s late and he hadn’t expected to see his father again until Monday.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asks as he exits the kitchen and moves into the living room, where John is already making himself at home.

John sighs deeply as he sinks into the recliner. “We’ve got to talk about your manners.”

Dean takes a seat across from him on the couch. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and mutes the football game he’d only been half watching. “Wasn’t expecting you is all.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t expecting to be here either. The kids asleep?”

Dean takes in his father; he looks aggrieved and disheartened.

“Yeah.” Dean takes a sip of the beer he’d plucked from the fridge. “So,” Dean ventures, “I’m guessing your little reunion with Sam didn’t go well.”

John chokes out a bitter laugh. “No, it didn’t. You have another one of those?” He asks, gesturing to Dean’s beer.

“There’s another one in the fridge,” Dean answers.

John returns with a half-drunk beer and sits back in the recliner. Dean waits patiently but his father offers nothing about his meeting with Sam. Dean is a little annoyed by his silence but accepts it. Dean was the one who said he wanted nothing to do with Sam after all. He supposes it’s fair.

Dean unmutes the television. They watch the game in silence for only a few minutes before John speaks up.

“He’s still so fucking angry,” John mutters.

Dean mutes the television one more time. “What?”

John finishes the remainder of his drink then sets the empty bottle down on the table. “I don’t know. I thought, maybe, after all this time, he’d be,” he pauses, searching for the right word and failing. “Fuck. I don’t know what I thought.”

Dean chuckles, amazed at his father’s lack of self-awareness. “You didn’t really think he’d just welcome you with open arms? You kicked him out. You told him to never come back.”

John eyes Dean warily. “No, I didn’t but I thought maybe he’d have grown up a little. Come to understand that I was just worried about his safety.”

Dean bristles at the words on his brother’s behalf. Even as a kid, Sam was already grown up enough and while John might have indeed been worried Sam wouldn’t be safe, it’s disingenuous of him to imply that was the only reason he didn’t want Sam to go. He begins to say as much but John cuts him off. “I already got an earful from your brother; I didn’t come here to get one from you too.” John sighs.

Dean can’t help his angry response. For as much as he loves his father, there’s a part of him that hates him too. A part that isn’t willing to forgive or forget the many ways John failed him and Sam. “Why did you come? You know how I feel about how all that went down. You didn’t think I was suddenly going to change my mind; did you?”

John’s face flushes with annoyance. “No, Dean. Why would I ever think that? It’s been you and Sam against the world since the day he was born. I know exactly where I rank.”

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his agitation. It doesn’t work. “Really, Dad? That’s rich coming from you.” He snickers humorlessly.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean silently curses Sam for returning and dredging up all the old arguments with his arrival. “It means Sam and I always knew where we ranked too and it certainly wasn’t first.”

“I did the best I could.” John snarls defensively, gearing up for a fight.

Dean shakes his head. He’s tired and isn’t really interested in arguing with his dad. He should just shut his mouth and let it lie, but finds he just can’t let it go. “Did you?” Dean asks quietly.

John recoils, as if slapped. Hurt flashes across his face for only a moment, before John manages to reign in the emotion. “I’m going to go.” He says, standing up.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea, Dad.”

John turns to go but pauses at door. “I’ll see you and the kids for breakfast?”

It’s a peace offering; John’s way of saying they’ll be okay. And they will be. They have to be. John is a part of their lives now and no matter how conflicted Dean feels, the kids love him.

Dean sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Yeah, save us the corner booth.”

John nods and lets himself out.

~~~

_“If you could do anything, what would it be?” Sam asks without taking his eyes off the star filled sky above them. The moon is full and bright. Dean can see every detail of his brother’s face._

_They’ve been watching the night sky for hours, perched on the hood of the Impala and sharing a bottle of off-brand vodka Dean stole for them. (He has a fake ID but didn’t bother using it. Better to take the opportunity to hone his shoplifting skills than to spend what little cash they have.) Dean takes a sip from the bottle instead of responding. It’s just like his brother to always be thinking about being anywhere but wherever they happen to be. He supposes Sam can indulge in that kind of fantasy but Dean doesn’t see much point. Daydreaming isn’t going to get Dean anywhere. Hunting is what their family does. It’s the only thing Dean knows how to do._

_Sam turns to him expectantly. “Well?”_

_Dean takes another long pull and hands the bottle back to Sam. Sam takes it but doesn’t drink. He watches Dean, waiting._

_Dean shrugs. “Not really, I mean, we hunt. That’s what we do.”_

_Dean knows it’s the wrong thing to say even before he says it but he’s not in the mood to talk theoreticals. What’s the point? It’s not going to change the fact that at the end of the night, they will crawl back into the car and go back to the shitty rental of the week and eat soup out of a can that has no label._

_Sam bristles at his response, shoving the bottle at Dean and then sliding off the hood of the car. “Hunting is what you and Dad do. All I do is get left behind.” His voice cracks and Dean feels like a world class heel for hurting his brother._

_“Sam…”_

_Sam shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I’m never going to be like you and Dad. First chance I get.” Sam stops, realizing it’s probably not wise to say anything more._

_Dean doesn’t need him to finish the thought. It’s the same song Sam has been singing for years._

_Dean hurls the bottle out into the empty field. Its meager contents spilling out as it goes._

_“Yeah, Sam, I know. Already showed me exactly what you’ll do.” Dean says bitterly, remembering the two hellacious weeks he’d spent looking for Sam after he’d run away._

_“Don’t you want more than this?” Sam asks without rancor. He seems to be genuinely interested in what Dean thinks._

_Dean examines his brother, nearly as tall as Dean now, lanky and a little too thin but strong. So different from Dean in so many ways. Dean considers what it would be like to leave their father, head off across the country to hunt on their own. They could start over. Go and do whatever they pleased out in the open. Dean could maybe-one day-kiss Sam in public, claim what’s his for everyone to see. Free of their father, no one would ever need to know they’re brothers. Yeah, Dean wants more. Wants things he knows he can never have._

_Sam meets Dean’s gaze. “Dean?”_

_Dean watches Sam, shifts nervously from foot to foot and wonders if Sam, who’s always been so eager to go, would choose to go with him if Dean asked. He imagines himself proposing such a thing and realizing how sappy and naïve the idea is, lets it go._

_“Come on,” he says instead of answering. “We should go.”_

~~

Dean wakes up emotionally hungover, surprised at how raw the memories feel, even after all these years. He supposes leaving things buried and unexamined tends to have that effect. It’s been a long time since he’s dreamt about his brother. Two nights of rehashing the past is two nights too many.  He rolls out of bed, his heart aching as much as his back.

~~~

Breakfast is surprisingly tension free. John does what John does best and acts as if he’s forgotten all about their conversation from the previous evening. Dean is perfectly happy to let it lie. One day they’ll clear the air for good. Probably. Dean watches his father entertain Ben and Claire while they wait for their food and wishes his feelings weren’t so conflicted. He wishes he still believed in and loved the man the way he did before their little family fell apart.

Dean says goodbye to John and the kids outside the dinner. Sunday is John’s day to “spoil his grandkids rotten.”  (The first time John said as much to Dean, it took everything in him not to call out ‘Christo’. The idea of John Winchester as anything but a hard ass was simply too foreign of a concept for Dean to wrap his brain around.) Dean watches them climb into John’s truck, watches the way Ben beams up at John and the way Clare snuggles in close to him, letting herself be carried even though she’s too big for it. The sight of it fills him with unexpected indignation. He thinks about Sam, working so hard for every bit of John’s attention and can’t help but wonder where this version of their father was when they were kids.  He shakes his head, chastising himself. Being pissy about it isn’t going to change how it all went down. John is trying. They all are and it’s been mostly good. He’s grateful his kids get to have this version of John.

Dean watches John’s truck disappear down the street, before he heads back to the house on foot. Creek City is like a lot of small towns in America. It grew up around the state road that runs down its middle, each side of the road lined with restaurants and other small businesses. Its downtown area expanding from there to encompass another three blocks of mostly industrial buildings, including their shop, before finally giving way to residences.

There’s less than half a mile between Dean’s home and their favorite diner Lilian’s. The short walk helps the kids burn some energy off before breakfast and afterwards, it provides Dean with some much-needed quiet time. He ambles back slowly, not wanting to aggravate his back. On the way, he passes their shop with its fading yellow mural that reads Wilkerson and Sons. They’d done their best to spruce up the exterior, when they’d taken over the place but like a lot of businesses in Creek City it still manages to look worn down, tired. He makes a note to talk John about having the mural repainted.

Dean walks back slowly, past the Lutheran church and the municipal park, past beautifully refurbished Victorian style homes which comprise Creek City’s first neighborhood until he finally turns onto his street, the last of the “old” residential area. Their street is composed of more modest minimal traditional homes built in the 40s. It was once a start-up neighborhood for the laborers who worked in the defunct textile mill. Most of the people who live here now work in the larger, neighboring Wood’s Ferry.  He’s only ever met a handful of his neighbors. Everyone mostly keeps to themselves and that’s just fine, as far as Dean is concerned.

Dean ambles up the street, aware of his surroundings but mostly consumed with the way his left knee crunches when he walks. He’ll tell himself later that this is why he doesn’t immediately notice the stranger perched on his porch step. By the time he notices the man, it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

Dean’s first thought is to run. It’s immediately followed by a wash of shame. Dean Winchester doesn’t run from anything, especially not his little brother. Though, admittedly, the man on his porch, now rising to his feet, doesn’t much resemble the person Dean remembers. There’s no trace of that kid in this man’s confident stance, his wide shoulders and solid chest. Gone are the shaggy, overgrown cut, worn Chuck Taylor’s, tattered jeans and too large hoodie, replaced by expensive looking black slacks, a robin’s egg blue button down, with the sleeves rolled perfectly to just below his elbow, a pair of shoes whose shine is nearly blinding and an expensive looking gold watch. No, there isn’t anything about this man that reminds Dean of the Sammy he used to know.

Sam’s eyes rake over Dean and Dean finds himself wishing he had taken a moment to dress up for breakfast. Sam’s gaze feels too assessing, too judgmental. It raises Dean’s hackles. Suddenly, Dean is back in that moment six years ago, when he realized he wasn’t enough to make Sam stay.  

“Hey, Dean.” Sam greets him casually, as if this were a normal, everyday occurrence. It galls Dean.

“I’m sorry to show up on your doorstep,” Sam says when Dean doesn’t offer a greeting. “Dad said you didn’t want to see me and well, you’re the reason I came, so.” He shrugs his shoulders and puffs out a soft chuckle.

Dean, stunned by the frank admission, doesn’t respond. The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks as if he is trying hard not to smile. Dean has no idea what to make of that.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Dean says finally.

“Probably not,” Sam replies as he descends the steps.

Dean watches him descend, a flash of panic hitting him at the thought that Sam might try to hug him, but Sam doesn’t. He stops short, leaving an arm’s length of space between them. Dean is equally disappointed and relieved.

 

Dean assess his brother and realizes that Sam is taller than him. It’s surprising and a little unnerving.  Sam notices Dean’s surprise and smirks. It’s the first thing about this stranger that feels familiar to Dean, that ties this man to the boy he used to know. Nostalgia washes over him in a disorienting rush. Suddenly, Dean has no idea what he wants to happen. Sam’s pull on him is like a magnet. Dean takes a step back, giving himself much needed space and watches Sam’s masks of easy confidence finally crack a little as he does so.

Sam sighs and shoves his hands into his pant pockets. “I just want to talk, Dean.” He says plaintively. “Please.”

Sam levels a pleading look at him that damn near breaks his heart. It’s a more grown up variation of the same puppy look Sam has been giving Dean his whole life and is just as effective. Dean feels dizzy with the morass of conflicting emotions swirling in his head. He wants desperately to cave and let Sam back into his life, his heart. The possessive, needy thing inside him crows with glee and that’s when he knows he can’t. Because no matter what he’s told himself, no matter how much shame he’s carried, no matter how much he’s chastised himself, he knows he would do it all again. Dean would rip his entire life apart if it meant he got to have Sam again.

Except, it isn’t just his life anymore. No matter what he wants, Dean has too much to lose to ever act on it. Regret and longing flood over him. He’s forced to look away, just to hide the tears stinging his eyes.

Dean shakes his head unable to speak for the ball of wire stuck in his throat. He fixes his eyes on Sam’s watch. It’s 10:32.

Sam lets out a shaky sigh. “Okay, Dean.” His voice quivers; he clears his throat.

Dean dares to look up and instantly regrets it. Sam looks as devastated as Dean feels. Sam's nose is red. He’s blinking away tears.  Dean wishes he could say out loud what he’s kept buried. _I miss you. I’m sorry. I love you._ He can no more say the words than he can allow himself hope.

Sam looks away, nodding slowly. “I get it. I do.”  He whispers.

Sam clears his throat again as he digs his wallet out of his back pocket. He flips it open, digs out a card and offers it to Dean. “My contact information is all on there. I put my personal email on the back for whenever you’re ready, okay?”

Dean takes the card, careful not touch him. Dean can’t afford to know what Sam’s hands feel like now.

They take each other one last time and then Sam turns to go. No goodbye. Nothing. Dean watches him walk away for a moment but is disrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, unlocks it and a text message from John pops up. He reads it, responds and looks up in time to watch his brother slip into his rental car and drive away.

 


End file.
